


The Merit of All Things

by SuePokorny



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-10 07:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4382603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuePokorny/pseuds/SuePokorny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission for the Cardinal, Aramis struggles to remember how it was that he returned to the garrison wounded and alone. Takes place early season one, sometime after episode 2, Sleight of Hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my incredible beta Sharlot, who always makes my stories better.

The Merit of All Things

Chapter 1

The fire raced up his side and he braced himself, trying to breathe through the pain. He became abstractedly aware of the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoing against the cobbles of the street, a rhythm discordant with the pounding pulse inside his head. The city was quiet and oddly deserted at this hour; dawn had yet to break, the silence of Paris unnerving as he wandered slowly, methodically past the closed shops and homes of its denizens.

His vision blurred – not for the first time – and he thanked God his horse needed little guidance to find its way home.

Home.

The garrison.

The one place he knew he could find help.

Help he desperately needed for…

His thoughts clouded by pain, Aramis clutched at his side, moaning low in his throat as the action set the fire alight again. He knew he was bleeding. He’d been bleeding for some time, although he could not recall the actual circumstance leading to his current condition.

The only thought in his head – besides the all-encompassing ache – was that he had to get home. He had to get to Treville. He had to tell him…

The thought floated away in a haze of pain and dizziness. He forced himself to take a deep breath as spots began to coalesce in his vision, eliciting another moan and something he might have considered a whimper if it had come from anyone else.

God, it hurt.

He closed his eyes, unconcerned with the tears that leaked from beneath his lashes as he squeezed the lids tight, panting through his mouth, gripping the reins with all the strength he could muster. Through a disorienting haze, he became aware the horse had stopped, and he lifted his head, cracking his eyes open. To his relief, the familiar courtyard of the garrison wavered in his vision, and he slumped in the saddle, chuckling low in his throat, giddy with relief.

He could hear footsteps and turned to see Treville and three other men rushing toward him, concern written on their faces. He swallowed hard, knowing his strength was at an end. As his resolve ebbed and his blood flowed down his side, he felt himself tilt, praying with his last coherent thought that someone was close enough to catch him.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“I don’t care, Treville, I want to know what happened to that book, and I want to know now!”

Aramis frowned as the familiar voice seeped into his consciousness. It wasn’t as if the Cardinal found his way into his dreams often, but it was disturbing as well as disorienting to have him there now.

“As you can see, Aramis is in no condition to tell us anything.”

Treville? Aramis relaxed. If the Captain was also in the dream… unless… he swallowed, a low moan rumbling from his throat as he turned his head toward the voices.

“There,” Richelieu again. “He’s awake. Now get me some answers.”

Aramis felt a presence near him, a cool hand suddenly pressing against his cheek.

“Aramis?” Definitely Treville. The Captain’s voice was low and unusually soft. “Aramis? Can you hear me?”

The Musketeer took a deep breath, wincing as the pain in his side flared to life. He rolled his head, feeling a tender bump on the back of his skull scrape against the soft cushion beneath it.

“Captain?” Air passed through his voiceless throat. He cleared it, coughing at the dry scratch created by long disuse.

The hand on his cheek disappeared only to return moments later to slide beneath his neck and raise it up marginally. A cup was placed to his lips, and he sipped at the cool water offered, sighing in pleasure as the liquid tempered his parched throat.

When the cup was withdrawn and his head gently repositioned on the pillow, he forced his eyes open a crack, squinting against the light as the concerned face of Captain Treville coalesced before him.

“Welcome back,” Treville smiled. “How are you feeling?”

Aramis raised a trembling hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the ache that had taken up residence behind his eyes. “I’ve been better,” he answered, pain and fatigue coloring his honesty. “What happened?”

Treville sighed, bringing the Musketeer’s attention back to his superior. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

Us? Oh, right. Aramis’ eyes slid to the left, widening upon seeing the impatient scowl of Cardinal Richelieu watching him intently. The man sat in a chair near the small table, his presence making Aramis’ breath quicken nervously. A quick glance told him he was in a bed in the large community room they used as an infirmary. A breeze blew from an open window behind him and he shivered, realizing he was clad only in his breeches and boots.

His hand moved to his side, tentatively touching the stained bandage bound around his torso. “I was shot?”

Treville nodded. “The ball creased your side – painful but not lethal. You lost quite a bit of blood.”

Aramis sighed and sank back onto the bed, squeezing his lids against the dizziness he suddenly experienced. “That would explain why I am lightheaded.” He opened his eyes and glanced again at the Cardinal, brow furrowing as he returned his attention to the captain.

Treville sensed his unasked question. “His Emminence is concerned about the whereabouts of the package you were sent to retrieve.”

Aramis frowned. “Package?”

“Yes,” Richelieu stood and crossed the room, his hands folded before him, his face a mask of impatience. “The package. You were to retrieve it from the Abbé of La Trinité in Vendôme. I must know what happened to it.”

Aramis stared at the man, searching his memory for any recollection of the mission the Cardinal was alluding to. After a moment he shook his head, his eyes returning to meet Treville’s. 

“I…” he swallowed, his breathing rapid, the ache behind his eyes building. “I don’t…” He squeezed his eyes against the pain.

“Easy, Aramis.”

“Don’t coddle him, Treville.”

He sensed the captain rising from his position on the edge of the cot, heard the scuffle of footsteps and the door opening. He felt the light of the sun against his lids and whimpered softly as the ache notched up at the intrusion.

“He is wounded,” he heard Treville’s harsh whisper. “As soon as I know anything, I will come to you directly. Now, if you don’t mind, Cardinal, I would like to take care of my man.”

Aramis heard the Cardinal huff in annoyance, but the man apparently was smart enough not to test Treville’s protective nature. 

“I expect to hear from you within the hour.”

Treville must have agreed because the next sound Aramis heard was the retreating footsteps of the Cardinal. After a few moments the door closed softly, and he felt Treville once again perch on the edge of the bed.

Aramis, noting the fireworks behind his lids had momentarily subsided, cracked open his eyes to find the captain watching him patiently.

“My apologies, Captain.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Aramis.”

His dark eyes drifted to the door. “Apparently the Cardinal feels quite differently.”

Treville chuckled. “The Cardinal is hardly a patient man,” he noted. “But even his Emminence cannot force information that is unavailable.”

At Aramis’ look of confusion, Treville continued. “You don’t remember what happened to you?”

Aramis took a deep breath and forced himself to think around the pain. He remembered returning to the garrison, but to his alarm, there was nothing beyond that hazy memory. Slowly he shook his head. “I’m… no.” He returned his troubled gaze to the captain as he recalled the Cardinal’s words. “I was sent to Vendôme?”

Treville nodded. “You, Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan.”

Aramis looked around, his anxiety growing as he realized they were alone. “The others?”

Treville sighed and pursed his lips. He leaned forward, his hand on Aramis arm. “You alone returned. There has been no word of the others.”

Aramis took a deep, shaking breath and released it slowly. His eyes losing focus as he considered the implications. “We were attacked?”

“We have no way of knowing.” Treville shrugged. “You truly don’t remember?”

Aramis shook his head. “No. Nothing.”

“There is a large lump on the back of your head. You were obviously struck, or struck something. That could explain your lack of memory.”

Aramis lifted a hand and tentatively touched the back of his head, wincing as his fingers found the lump Treville described. While the pressure on the wound was painful, it couldn’t equal the pain in his heart concerning the unknown fate of his friends.

“What was this package?”

Aramis pushed himself into a sitting position against the wall, breathing heavily through his nose as his stomach protested the change in elevation. Swallowing against the sudden nausea, he leaned back as Treville shifted the pillow higher to support his back. After a few moments, he smiled his thanks to the captain and let a soft breath escape between his lips.

Treville rose and stepped across the wooden floor. He positioned the chair the Cardinal had vacated next to the bed and sat wearily upon it. 

“Four days ago, the four of you set out on a mission of some importance at the request of the Cardinal,” Treville explained. “You were to retrieve a package – a rare book – from the Abbey at La Trinité in Vendôme. You returned early this evening, alone and wounded. That is all I know.”

Aramis sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes as the ache in his head continued to fluctuate. “And I’m afraid I can offer nothing more.” He opened his eyes and searched the ceiling, striving to master the agony in his head and his heart. “I can’t help thinking they’re –“

“Don’t,” Treville ordered, his voice soft yet imposing. “We don’t know anything yet, let’s not make assumptions.”

“They would have returned with me if they’d been able,” Aramis countered, his chest aching at the thought.

Treville nodded, reluctant.

Aramis shifted and leaned back, ignoring the tenderness of the lump as it thudded against the wall. “I don’t want to believe they are gone.”

“Then don’t.”

Easier said than done. The ache in his head made it impossible to concentrate and he quickly grew frustrated at his incapacity to recall the events that had led to his singular return.

Aramis growled and buried his face in his hands. “If only I could remember!”

Treville patted his leg in a gesture of comfort. “Give yourself some time, son.”

“They may not have time!” Aramis hissed. His anger was not directed at the captain, but at himself, and Treville seemed to sense his self-reproach.

“Making yourself ill will not help them either,” Treville chastised. “You were gravely wounded and you must rest, Aramis. Perhaps your memories will return when your mind is not clouded with pain.”

The Musketeer reluctantly nodded, knowing the unrelenting ache in his head and side were only exacerbating his frustration.

“Good,” Treville patted his leg as he stood, pushing the chair away and moving toward the door. “I will check on you in the morning. I will have Serge send over some stew in case you feel up to eating later.”

“Thank you, Captain.” Aramis let his appreciation for the Captain’s understanding show in his voice.

“Rest, Aramis. Things will look better in the morning.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Treville sighed as he stepped out, closing the door firmly behind him. He couldn’t admit to Aramis how worried he was at the turn of events, knowing the marksman was right in his assessment. If they had been able, the other three would never have allowed their wounded comrade to ride alone. Which could only mean they were either wounded or incapacitated in some way, enough to leave their brother to fend for himself despite his condition.

The fact that Aramis had no recollection of what had happened was more than disconcerting. He had been unconscious for the better part of the day, the surgeon able to clean and stitch the wound in his side without him waking. Concussed, the doctor had not been able to predict what his mental state would be when he regained consciousness, but he had cautioned that severe blows to the head often resulted in confusion and disorientation and to expect the man to be a bit unsettled for a while. He had recommended complete bedrest for at least a week, but under the circumstances, Treville would be surprised if he’d be able to keep Aramis in his sick bed for the night.

He rubbed a hand across his face and looked up, not surprised to find the Cardinal sitting in his coach, watching him through the curtained window. Slowly he made his way to the courtyard, pushing down his irritation, forcing himself to remain calm.

“I believe you gave me an hour.”

“What does he remember?”

“Nothing,” Treville shook his head. “I’m afraid the blow to his head has left him bereft. He has no recollection of the mission nor what happened since.”

Richelieu took a deep breath through his nose, his lips pressed into a tense line.

“That is not good enough, Treville,” he snapped.

“I understand your impatience, your Eminence, but –“

“You understand nothing, Captain.” Richelieu leaned out, his face merely inches from Treville’s. “That book is of vital importance to the Church. It must not fall into the wrong hands.”

Treville nodded. “I will send a detachment out to find –“

“You will go yourself,” the Cardinal demanded. “You said these men were your best, but clearly they were lacking. I will not tolerate another failure, Captain.”

With a snort of finality, the Cardinal ducked inside the coach and yelled for the driver to move out. Treville took a quick step back to avoid the wheels and shook his head, his glare wasted on retreating coach. He bent his neck back and searched the sky, hoping to find answers in the clouds above. If only it was so easy.

With another sigh, he turned, surprised to find Aramis slumped in the doorway, one hand bracing his side, the other white-knuckling the frame of the door.

“You should be in bed,” he admonished. “I believe I told you to rest.”

“I’m going with you.”

Treville shook his head, letting his eyes rake over the wounded man. “You can barely stand.”

“Not a requirement for riding a horse.”

Treville huffed a laugh. “As if you could do that at the moment.”

Aramis visibly stiffened at the rebuff and pushed himself from the door, squaring his shoulders and standing as straight as his wounds would allow.

Treville smiled softly at the show of resolve, and crossed the short distance to place a hand on the wounded man’s shoulder. “I understand your need to find out what happened to your friends, Aramis, but –“

“Captain, please.” The desperation in the marksman’s voice was not lost on Treville. Aramis had been the sole survivor of the Savoy massacre so many years ago, and the Captain knew the ghosts of those lost comrades still haunted the Spaniard. It had been Porthos and Athos who had pulled him from his grief back then and shown him a way to move on, to find joy in life once again. The loss of these men – men he considered family – would be impossible for him to recover from. Not knowing how or why would make the loss infinitely worse. Treville could not find it in his heart to subject the younger man to such a fate.

“Rest tonight, Aramis.” He held up a hand before the marksman could protest. “We leave in the morning.” Treville had no idea if it was the wisest decision, but the relief and gratitude shining in the Musketeer’s dark eyes assured him it was the right one.

 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

Aramis doused his face with water, hoping it would clear his head. He had slept restlessly, tossing and turning due to the unrelenting ache in his side and head as well as the pain in his heart. The absence of his friends weighed heavily upon him, and he could find no solace in sleep as long as their fate remained unknown. He had woken in a cold sweat hours ago, unwilling to return to sleep for fear of seeing their bloody, still bodies in his dreams. He had already lived through one nightmare of loss in Savoy, he doubted he would be able to survive a second.

No. They were alive. He had no idea why he knew this; his memories of what had transpired since their departure no more clear now than they were before, but something inside told him they would not abandon him to this fate. Not again. Perhaps it was simply an inability to accept reality, or a desire to believe God could not be so cruel, but whatever the reason, he refused to give up on his brothers.

He scooped up a handful of water and cupped the back of his neck, letting the cool liquid trickle down his sweat soaked skin. He’d abandoned his shirt when he’d laid down to sleep, and the cool air on his wet hide made him shiver. Bringing another handful of water to his lips, he sipped the liquid slowly, letting it linger on his tongue and trickle down his throat, landing heavily in his empty stomach. He’d been unable to eat the stew Serge had brought to him last night; the bowl still sat on the table, the sustenance inside it cold and congealed. 

He had promised the Captain he would eat and rest – neither of which he’d been able to accomplish – but he refused to be left behind. He knew he was in poor condition to ride, but if there was even a small chance his memories would return, he knew he had to be close enough to act upon them. If his friends were in need of his assistance, there was nothing short of death that would keep him from offering it. 

Treville understood. Aramis had seen it in his eyes when he’d relented the evening before. If the Captain had insisted he stay behind, Aramis would have simply waited and set out on his own, even if it meant defying a direct order. He was a good soldier – nobody could dispute that fact – but he’d learned the hard way that his friends meant more to him than his commission. He may be less than fit, but he would not fail his mission to find them.

The morning sun slowly crept above the horizon, casting a dim orange light through the open window of the room. Squinting into the light, he found his headache had abated slightly, leaving a dull, pulsing ache where the sharp pain had stabbed previously. He’d had many blows to he head before and knew what to expect; moments of dizziness and pain that would tap his strength and resolve, but he would not – could not – let that deter him from what he needed to do.

A soft knock on the door forced him to straighten and he grabbed for his shirt and doublet belt as he crossed the room. His weapons had been removed before he had regained consciousness, and he would have to inquire as to their location. Upon opening the door, that question was answered. Treville stood just outside, Aramis’ sword and pistols in hand, his eyes raking the younger man’s form, assessing, obviously finding the sight wanting.

“Did you get any sleep at all?” He held out the weapons belt with an air of reluctance. Aramis pretended not to notice.

Accepting the belt even as he struggled into his doublet, he shrugged and squeezed past the Captain into the courtyard. “Enough.”

“I doubt that,” the officer mumbled as he placed his hat on his head and followed Aramis to the stable. Their horses stood saddled and ready, provisions packed into saddlebags for their journey.

Aramis pulled himself up into the saddle, squeezing his lids shut as the world took a precarious tilt for a moment. Breathing through his nose, he forced himself to remain still until the pain in his side eased and the unease in his stomach relented. Cautiously he opened his eyes to find Treville mounted beside him, watching him closely.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, knowing the Captain would not be fooled.

Treville simply sighed and nodded. “We’ll take it slow. Don’t be a fool, Aramis. Let me know if you need to stop.”

Aramis gave him a grateful smile as they pointed their mounts toward the main gates of the garrison.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The morning was warm, a slight breeze ruffling the curls that escaped below the brim of his hat. Though the ache in his side had dulled, it kept him from relaxing in the saddle, mindful of the stitches that knitted his flesh together. He could feel them pulling uncomfortably and did his best to ignore it, concentrating instead on the countryside beyond the road they were traversing, keeping the reason that had necessitated their journey forefront in his mind.

He swallowed hard against the dryness of his throat, wishing he could reach down for his waterskin, but dreading the inevitable flair of pain the motion would cause. A quick glance toward Treville showed the Captain lost in his own thoughts, and Aramis shifted, wincing as the tender flesh on his side stretched. He took a deep breath through his nose and clamped down on the pain, careful not to show any sign of discomfort on his face. He knew Treville, despite outward appearances, was looking for any indication of weakness, ready and willing to point out the folly of Aramis’ accompanying him, and steeled himself against giving him any reason to call a halt to the mission. 

He was not fit for duty – he knew it and he knew the Captain was aware of it as well. He should be back at the garrison, resting, awaiting word on the fate of his friends, but he’d never been one to sit idle while those he cared about were in danger. The gaps in his memory were disconcerting to say the least, but the fissure in his heart caused the more serious anguish.

He’d always thought his behavior of disregarding his pain in favor of those more in need a bit heroic – though Athos had on occasion called it reckless. But reckless or not, he would not turn back until he’d learned what had happened to his friends and why they had not returned with him. He smiled, knowing his old friends would chide him for his lack of self-preservation….

_… “Take Aramis for instance.” Athos tilted his chin toward the Musketeer who rode directly in front of him. “His self-preservation instincts could use some work.”_

_They’d been riding for most of the day, having set off mid-morning on a mission for the Cardinal. Richelieu had been rather vague about the package they were supposed to retrieve from the ´Abbé at La Trinitie at Vendôme, except to say it was a book that was considered a treasure to the Church. Treville had not seen why it would take four armed, well-trained Musketeers to transport one book, but the Cardinal had been insistent it was of the utmost importance and the Captain had relented, sending his four most trusted men to retrieve it._

_The day was quite pleasant, the green grass of the rolling hills stretching before them bowing in the wind like emerald waves. With little else to pass the time except conversation, Athos had taken the opportunity to impart his wisdom upon their newest recruit on how to properly conduct himself as member of the King’s elite guard. How the conversation had taken a turn toward the certain acts performed by one of the other members of the King’s guard was something Aramis could not immediately deduce._

_The marksman turned in his saddle, leveling an innocent grin at his companion. “I like to think of myself as selfless rather than oblivious.”_

_Athos nodded, accepting. “Yet both leaned toward unwarranted recklessness.”_

_Aramis placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “Me? Reckless? I’m sure you jest, dear Athos. You must consider your words or our young d’Artagnan may get the wrong impression of a Musketeer’s heroics.”_

_“It is the folly of that very thing I am endeavoring to impress upon him.”_

_Aramis laughed easily, the banter helping to make the journey more pleasant, keeping their spirits high. They rode along at a leisurely pace, knowing they need not be on guard until after they had retrieved the Cardinal’s precious book._

_“The lad could do worse than emulate me.” He turned toward d’Artagnan and winked. “I have been told I’m quite charming.”_

_D’Artagnan chuckled and Porthos shook his head in fond exasperation. “You’re also quite mad,” the big man offered with a grin. “And Athos is right, you do tend to be a bit reckless. No one in their right mind would consider falling on top of a bomb heroic or charming.”_

_“I was trying to save the Queen,” Aramis explained petulantly. “It is my privilege and duty to die for the crown.”_

_“Porthos does have a point,” d’Artagnan interjected. “While it was brave, you can hardly be expected to be of service to the Queen or King with half of your limbs blown to pieces.”_

_Porthos laughed aloud. “See? Even the whelp can see it was a stupid thing to do.”_

_“Point taken,” Aramis conceded. He turned to Porthos, his eyes bright, his hand toying with the jeweled cross around his neck – a gift from the Queen for saving her life. “But I do believe I left a favorable impression upon Her Majesty.”_

_“It was still stupid,” Porthos pointed out, undeterred by the golden talisman._

_Aramis grinned. “Yet here I sit in one glorious, handsome piece, none the worse for my gallantry.”_

_“Lucky if you ask me.”_

_Chuckling at his friend’s continued discontent, Aramis shifted in the saddle, letting his eyes roam the countryside before them. “Luck is a lady I am quite intimate with, my friend.”_

_“Which brings us to another point of conduct,” Athos said dryly._

_At Aramis’ frown, d’Artagnan smiled at the marksman. “You do seem to be intimate with quite a few ladies.” He had not been with them for long, but he had heard stories of Aramis’ conquests. Though the other Musketeers often speculated on the rumors of his many liaisons with the women of Paris, Aramis was hardly the type to kiss and tell._

_“A gentleman does not discuss such things, d’Artagnan.” A smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Pay no heed to the jealous words of our companions, but keep in mind I have had few complaints concerning my conduct from any of the fairer sex.”_

_“No, but their husbands have ‘ad a few things to say.” Porthos chuckled. “You take better care of your weapons than you do your own skin.”_

_“A good Musketeer always keeps his weapons in sufficient working order,” the marksman said with a cheeky grin. He patted the munitions pouch attached to his belt. “Rest assured, all I need is secured here to keep my skin and the rest of me quite attractive to all the lovely women of France.”_

_Porthos rolled his eyes and Athos added a grunt of amusement at the marksman’s declaration._

_After a few moments of comfortable silence, d’Artagnan voiced a question that had been on all their minds ever since they’d been assigned the mission._

_“What do you think is so important about this book we’ve been sent to retrieve?”_

_Porthos and Athos exchanged a shrug before turning to Aramis, their unofficial expert in all things religious._

_“I have no idea,” the Spaniard shook his head. “There are many texts considered sacred works of art, but none that I can recall being so treasured as to pique the Cardinal’s interest. Besides, I hardly think Rome would allow anything so important to end up in the Cardinal’s hands.”_

_“You think this is some kind of ruse?”_

_Aramis shrugged, his lips pursing as he considered d’Artagnan’s question. “Perhaps. Or another of the Cardinal’s underhanded schemes, but who knows what goes on in the dark, evil depths of Richelieu’s mind?”_

_At the marksman’s sharp tone, Athos raised his brows. Though none of them held Richelieu in high esteem, it was rare for any of them to show their disdain so openly._

_When it was obvious no explanation was forthcoming, Athos’ eyes shifted to Porthos who shrugged, his voice low as he responded to the silent inquiry._

_“Adele has left Paris for the Cardinal’s country estate.” His gaze moved to Aramis as he explained. “Left word with a maid. Didn’t bother to say goodbye.”_

_“Ah,” Athos grunted in understanding. “There truly is no accounting for taste.”_

_Aramis turned, gifting him with a small smile of gratitude. “It is hard to believe the Cardinal to be anyone’s taste.”_

_“Who’s Adele?” The young Gascon’s curiosity got the better of him._

_“The Cardinal’s mistress,” Athos responded. “And Aramis’ love.”_

_D’Artagnan whistled long and low. “You were sleeping with the Cardinal’s mistress?”_

_“Alas,” Aramis sighed. “I loved and lost. It is a rare occurrence, but it does happen.”_

_“I’m sure you will recover.”_

_Aramis turned enough to give Athos a sad grin. “Without question, my friend. Time does heal all wounds. Though losing to the Cardinal is hardly something I will brag about.”_

_“That’s got to be a blow to the ego,” Porthos attempted to hide his amusement, but failed miserably._

_Aramis blatantly ignored him._

_“Maybe she just prefers older men,” d’Artagnan offered helpfully. “Much, much older…”_

_Aramis laughed, grateful for his friends’ attempts to bolster his ego and raise his spirits. “I hope she will be happy in her decision – though I must admit I am at a loss to understand how.”_

_“Maybe this mission was an attempt to get you as far from Adele as possible?”_

_Aramis considered the idea, but dismissed it quickly. “No, Richelieu had no knowledge of our… relationship. And he could hardly insist on Treville sending out specific Musketeers for mission without raising questions.” He shook his head. “It is a simple twist of fate, my young friend, that we are sent on this mission for the Cardinal. Whatever we may encounter along our journey, I have no doubt, the Cardinal is quite ignorant of what has transpired between the lovely Adele and I…”_

__

 

“Aramis!”

He blinked as the call of his name penetrated his thoughts. From the tone of Treville’s voice, it wasn’t the first time he had tried to get the younger man’s attention.

“Apologies, Captain,” he said, blinking rapidly to clear the sudden spots from his vision. He swayed and grabbed for the pommel of his saddle, realizing they were no longer moving, the horses standing still upon the road.

“Aramis?”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, wincing as the words left his mouth. “Perhaps not fine,” he amended before Treville could dispute the claim. “But I am quite able to continue.”

He took a deep breath through his nose and released it slowly, before shifting his eyes up to meet the Captain’s. 

“I called to you many times,” Treville explained, a tinge of trepidation in his voice. “You seemed to be… lost. Did you recall something about the mission?”

Aramis nodded slowly, his eyes losing focus as he responded. “I remembered being on this very road – the four of us. We were…;” he smiled, “attempting to teach young d’Artagnan of proper behavior for a King’s Musketeer.”

Treville scoffed aloud. “That would seem… unfortunate.”

Aramis’ brows rose in confusion. “Sir?”

“The three of you trying to teach the lad how to behave. Seems a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t you agree?”

Aramis snorted a laugh. “It was mostly Athos providing the lesson. I believe as long as d’Artagnan didn’t follow him into a tavern, the lesson should have merit.”

Treville grunted his agreement, his eyes raking the younger man’s hunched form. “Your head is bothering you?”

Aramis nodded. “Is it so apparent? I thought I was hiding it rather well.”

“I am more astute than any of you give me credit for,” Treville countered, ignoring the Musketeer’s expression of discomfiture. “There is an inn a few leagues beyond the woodlands,” he motioned in the direction they were traveling. “Just south of Chartres. We will stop there to rest and get something to eat.” His tone left no room for argument and Aramis humbly nodded in agreement. He loathed the thought of any kind of delay in their quest to find his friends, but he knew the Captain was doing what he must to walk the fine line between responsibility to the missing men and concern for the one still by his side. It was a difficult position and Aramis would not allow himself to make the Captain’s task any more complicated than it already was. Besides, as the ache in his head and side reminded him, a few moments rest would be more than welcome.

 

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

By the time they arrived at the inn, Aramis could barely keep his head up, the relentless ache doubled due to the constant motion of the horses. Slowly, he dismounted, ignoring Treville’s look of concern, and followed the Captain into the small establishment, taking a seat at a table near the fire. Though it was a warm day, the clouds had moved in, blocking the sun and sending a chill through him. He dropped heavily into a chair and leaned forward, pressing his face against his folded arms on the table.

“Aramis?”

“I’m fine.” His muffled voice lacked the normal tinge of respect it normally held when addressing his captain, but until the pain in his head tempered to a reasonable level, he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

“So I see,” Treville’s response held a touch of amusement. Aramis felt as much as heard the Captain slide into the chair beside him. 

“Can I get you gentlemen something to drink?”

The soft, feminine voice filtered through the pain and Aramis raised his head, smiling by force of habit before he even saw the owner of the lilting sound.

“Well hello there, handsome,” the blonde barmaid smiled, one hand on her hip as her eyes lit up. “You decide the duck and poached pears were too temptin’ to pass up?”

Aramis frowned. “Excuse me?”

The young woman shifted, tucking a stray blonde curl behind her ear nervously. “Um, you and your friends were here not two days ago? Had the stew? Said you didn’t have time for anything else?” She lifted a brow suggestively, and Aramis grinned despite himself.

“You remember me and my friends?”

She laughed coyly. “Of course I do. Not likely to forget a face like yours. We don’t get many Musketeers through here.” She glanced at Treville, then looked around. “Just the two of you this time? Probably a good idea considering the trouble the big one caused last time you were here.”

Aramis and Treville exchanged a look of perplexity. 

“Trouble?” At Aramis’ shrug, Treville leaned against the table and narrowed his eyes at the young woman. “What do you mean by trouble?”

She glanced from one to the other, her brows furrowing across her forehead. “The fight?” she let her eyes rest on Aramis, her confusion obvious. “You don’t remember the fight?” …

 

_… Aramis pulled off his gloves and tucked them into his sash, his dark eyes roaming around the busy inn, a pleasant smile on his face. There were at least a dozen men at the scattered tables, wine and ale flowing freely, bowls of stew and plates of bread, cheese and meats scattered about. It was an establishment like every other little tavern they’d rolled into, but he always found places like this intoxicating – especially when they came equipped with lovely young barmaids such as the vision currently approaching them._

_“Evening, messieurs,” the young woman smiled, revealing a row of reasonably straight white teeth. She tucked a tuft of gold hair that had escaped the loose bun she wore behind her ear. “We’re full up for the night, but we can get you a hot meal and a bit of refreshment if you’re of a mind.”_

_Aramis stepped forward and bowed, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips graciously. “We are most certainly of a mind, mademoiselle.” He grinned at her through his lashes, ignoring the moan and snicker from behind him. The barmaid giggled appreciatively and taking his arm, led them through the crowd to a large table tucked neatly into the corner. As she stepped back, allowing the others to pass, Aramis pulled her close, gazing into her eyes, grinning at the blush that crept across her pale cheeks._

_“Perhaps you could bring us a bottle of the house’s finest?”_

_She smiled and nodded immediately, sighing as he released her to join his friends at the table._

_“You just can’t ‘elp yourself, can you?” Porthos shook his head. His stern admonishment tempered by the small smile that tugged the corner of his mouth._

_“I was only being polite,” Aramis countered. “And a bit of flattery is always conducive to getting the best of service, don’t you agree?”_

_D’Artagnan nodded, an amenable smile on his face._

_“See?” Aramis tilted his chin toward the younger man, his brows rising as he shifted his gaze to Porthos. “Even the lad agrees.”_

_Porthos huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes at the merriment dancing in his friend’s dark eyes. “Yeah, but the whelp doesn’t know you well enough yet to understand what your kind of politeness can lead to.”_

_“We shall hopefully be able to instill caution in him before he strives to follow in your footsteps,” Athos concluded. A corner of his mouth twitched in what for him was a full out grin, and Aramis let his head drop back as he laughed aloud._

_“Like I said before,” the marksman clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder as they all took their seats round the table, “you could do far worse than emulate me, my young friend. At least I know how to have some fun.”_

_The barmaid’s return interrupted any retorts and she placed a bottle and four cups on the table. She smiled at Aramis, her cheeks coloring in a soft, rosy way that made them all grin. “We’ve got some good mutton stew,” she offered, not taking her eyes from the Spaniard’s. “Or I could ‘ave the cook roast a duck with poached pears. Even got some fresh bread still warm from the hearth.”_

_Aramis wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in, eliciting another charming giggle from the girl. “I absolutely adore pears,” he smiled, “but we’re on a mission and have little time to spare. If what you offer is as good as you boast, the stew and bread will do nicely.”_

_She placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned down so their breaths mingled. “I promise you will not be disappointed with anything I have to offer, Monsieur.”_

_Aramis’ brows rose at the pointed reply. The barmaid ran a hand through his hair then pushed away, smiling demurely back over her shoulder as she made her way across the room to the kitchen._

_Porthos chuckled, shaking his head fondly. “I’m pretty sure she wasn’t talkin’ about the stew.”_

_“Ah,” Aramis sighed, his eyes tracking the girl until she disappeared behind a brick wall. “If only I wasn’t so dedicated to duty.”_

_“Lucky for us, you are,” Athos reminded him. “I suspect we should make it to Vendôme before sunset.”_

_The others nodded, sobering as they were reminded of their mission._

_“The Abbey of La Trinité is located a lieu east of the city,” Aramis explained. “It would perhaps be prudent to take the road around instead of traversing through the city proper?”_

_Athos nodded his agreement. “It would save time and allow for less scrutiny. Musketeers aren’t a normal sight so far from Paris.”_

_“Don’t seem to be a normal sight here, either,” Porthos pointed out, his eyes on a table of rough looking men across the room. “We seem to ‘ave drawn the interest of a few of the locals.”_

_They turned as one toward what had captured Porthos’ attention. There were four men seated at the table across the room, all of them slouched in their chairs, hands gripping tankards of ale, their eyes narrowed, focused on the soldiers._

_“It seems we are quite popular,” Aramis quipped, raising his cup in salute toward the men. “I am, at least accustomed to the admiration, but I could see why it might make the rest of you a bit uncomfortable.” His gesture had the expected result on the observers; they turned away, mumbling quietly amongst themselves, just as it had the desired effect on his companions, making them chuckle and dismiss their apprehension._

_As Musketeers, they were used to their pauldrons garnering attention wherever they traveled, but it never made the personal scrutiny any more warranted or welcome. Though Aramis sometimes relished the attention; acted as if having the eyes of everyone upon him was something he delighted in, his closest friends knew part of it was an act, a mask he wore out of necessity, a defense against the insecurities that had plagued him since being left alone to perish in the snowy forest of Savoy._

_Porthos leaned closer, bumping a shoulder and Aramis smiled, acknowledging the gesture for what it was. He didn’t have to pretend with these men, but the act was ingrained and sometimes difficult to repress._

_The barmaid returned with a tray laden with bowls of rich, aromatic stew and bread, still steaming as promised. The smell of the food was intoxicating, as was the smile deferred upon them from the lovely mademoiselle._

_“Here you are, messieurs,” she leaned down to place the tray on the scarred tabletop. “The best in the region.”_

_Porthos rubbed his hands together gleefully as she placed a heaping bowl of stew before him. He sniffed appreciatively and moaned as his face took on an almost reverent countenance._

_Aramis laughed. “Forgive him his ill manners,” he said to the barmaid, his eyes squinting with amusement as he watched his friend’s utter delight. “Just take his tasteless noises as compliments and gratitude for this splendid repast.”_

_She laughed openly. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, Monsieur.”_

_“Those men,” Athos asked, his voice low, his eyes darting toward the table across the room. “They seem to have taken a distinct interest in our uniforms. Do you know them?”_

_She glanced back across her shoulders and shook her head as she returned to the task of laying out the food on the table. “They’re simply passing through, like yourselves. Their faces aren’t familiar to me. Would you like me to alert the owner?”_

_Athos shook his head. “No. They’ve done nothing to warrant it.” He gave the girl a cordial smile. “My apologies for concerning you.”_

_The stew proved as delicious as promised, and the four men sat, satisfied, finishing the second bottle of fine burgundy the barmaid delivered with a wink and a smile. They were about to ask what they owed when they looked up to see two of the men from across the room approach their table._

_The larger of the two stopped a few steps away, midway between Porthos and d’Artagnan. “Musketeers,” he sneered, his eyes roving between the young Gascon and the darker skinned soldier. “Looks like they’ll take any gutter rat or whelp that comes along, eh?”_

_His companion laughed, even as Porthos lowered his cup to the table in an exaggeratedly slow motion. He looked across the table to Athos who shook his head minutely._

_“If you wish to solicit a commission, I would suggest a more cordial approach.” Athos’ voice remained level, but no one could mistake the steel beneath the tone._

_The man spat upon the floor, the glob landing near Porthos’ boot. “I wouldn’t lower myself to that level.”_

_Porthos looked down, shifting his boot away with a grunt of disgust. “Don’t think you could get much lower,” he said casually, as if commenting on the weather._

_The man’s face clouded in anger. “At least I’m not in the gutter with the likes of you.”_

_“Gentleman,” Aramis stood, placing a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, exerting enough pressure to keep the larger man in his seat. He stepped away from the table, pressing the barmaid’s arm. Gently shifting her to stand behind him. “We are not looking for any trouble. How about we settle this like gentlemen?”_

_The man looked Aramis up and down, snorting as if he found the soldier hardly worth his time. “You come in here, thinking you can smile and flash those swords and take whatever you want in the name of the King?”_

_“That is generally how it works,” Athos intoned. He rose to stand also, coolly watching the other men as they joined their friends, fanning out around the table._

_“You aren’t in Paris.”_

_“Yet we are still in France.”_

_D’Artagnan and Porthos rose, pushing their chairs away, their hands on the hilts of their swords._

_“Like my friend said,” d’Artagnan warned. “We aren’t looking for trouble.”_

_“Well that’s too bad, boy. Because trouble is exactly what you’ve found.”_

_Aramis wasn’t sure who threw the first punch, but before he could wade forward into the brawl, he sensed movement behind him and heard a sharp gasp from the young woman he’d been trying to keep safe. Quickly he turned, seeing one of the other men grab her arm and pull her away. He tipped his chair up with the toe of his boot, kicking it forward, placing it directly in the path of the attacker’s footsteps. Unable to avoid the obstruction, the man tripped, losing his grip on the girl and falling hard onto the floor._

_“Aramis!”_

_Portho’s voice had him spinning back toward the main part of the room, only to see a projectile coming toward him from the corner of his eye. Unable to duck in time, the tankard caught him across the temple. As his vision grayed and the room spun, he felt himself begin to topple, thankful for the soft, yet strong arms that slowed his descent…_

...“Then the other man yelled ‘Enough!’ and everyone more or less froze.” The barmaid’s lilting voice brought him back to the present and Aramis blinked, surprised to see Treville watching him warily. 

“Athos,” Aramis said softly, his eyes losing focus for a moment. “It was Athos who called a halt to the fight.” He rubbed his face wearily, taking over the narrative from the barmaid. “He reminded them that interfering with a Musketeer on a mission from the King was punishable by death.”

The barmaid nodded. “That stopped ‘em in their tracks,” she said with a grin. “The man – Athos?” she looked to Aramis who nodded. “Athos told ‘em they would overlook their previous indiscretions, but the next man who raised a hand to them would be dealt with swiftly and justly. He had his sword out and he looked like he knew how to use it.”

“He does,” Aramis conceded. “Quite well.”

“Those men knew they were beat.” She reached out and touched Aramis on the side of the head. “After you went down, that big friend of yours went crazy. Thought he was going to kill them all.”

Aramis smiled and shrugged. “Porthos can be quite protective of those he considers friends.”

“I’d say.” She returned his smile.

“But you say there were no other injuries?” Treville asked. “Our men left here without further incident?” At her nod, he turned his attention to Aramis. “The blow to your head could be why you’re having trouble remembering.”

Aramis sighed. “Perhaps, but it was only a glancing strike, I didn’t even lose consciousness.” He looked to the barmaid for confirmation.

“You were stunned,” she admitted. “But seemed steady enough once your friends picked you up out of my arms.” 

Aramis gave her a roguish grin. “I’m not sure whether to thank them or chastise them for the effort.”

Treville grunted his opinion.

They ordered some food and drink, Aramis quiet as his memories of the incident played over and over in his head. His recollections were scattered, but he couldn’t fathom whether it was because of his head injury now or then. Either way, he did remember them leaving without further incident, knowing they continued on their mission before his mind went dark and he could recall no more.

Treville ate his stew, his eyes straying to Aramis’ contemplative expression as he chewed. The marksman took a few bites, but mostly just played with his food, his headache and his heartache dampening his appetite as well as his enthusiasm. 

“Perhaps the men who challenged you followed?” Treville theorized. “Why did they confront you to begin with? It’s not good form to attack the King’s guard – especially with even numbers and in public.”

Aramis shrugged wearily, moving his spoon around the bowl. “I have no idea. My memories are still suspect to say the least, but I can recall nothing that would incur their – or anyone else’s – ire. We were simply stopping to eat before continuing on to Vendôme.”

“And nobody did or said anything to provoke them?”

Aramis met his captain’s eyes. “On my honor as a Musketeer, there was no provocation on our part for their aggression.”

Treville nodded, convinced. “I suppose we cannot assume they left peacefully. Would you recognize them if you saw them again?”

Aramis gave up his pretense of eating and leaned an elbow on the table, wearily rubbing a hand across his eyes. He shrugged. “Perhaps. I don’t know. If only this ache would stop long enough for me to think.”

Treville pushed his bowl away and laid a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “We could stay the night. You need rest, Aramis. You’ll do no one any good if you collapse halfway to our objective.”

Aramis snorted and let his head drop, running a hand through his hair, idly pressing against the still sore bump on the back of his skull. “I appreciate the offer, Captain, but the only way I will be able to rest is to find out what happened to my friends. Until I know, I cannot allow myself to give in to my weariness.”

Treville nodded and squeezed his shoulder before pushing himself from the table. “Very well then. Let us resume our journey without delay.”

Aramis rose slowly, keeping a firm grasp on the edge of the table as the room tilted for a moment. The disorientation wasn’t quite as bad as before, the rest and sustenance – meager as it had been – enough to restore some semblance of vigor to his aching body. With one arm protectively around his torso, he grabbed his hat from the table and followed Treville out the door, completely unaware of the two sets of eyes that tracked them.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The Abbey of La Trinité was an ornate structure with two spires rising on either side of a majestically carved central arch encompassing one of the oldest known stained glass windows in the world. Originally a Benedictine monastery, it fell under the purview of the St. Maur congregation, renowned for its literary and historical works. Aramis squinted at the façade, the weathered balustrades pale against the blue sky above. He sighed, praying silently they would be able to find some answers here.

They tethered their horses to a tree across the main courtyard and moved on foot to the two main doors of the church. Inside, the air was cool, the late afternoon sun shining through the stained glass, casting a rainbow of color across the parquet floor. A few people occupied chairs within the hushed confines of the cathedral, but the marble alter was not in use and the Musketeers were reassured they had not intruded upon any ongoing service.

Aramis hung back, leaning wearily against the main door as Treville moved further into the church, his objective a cassock-clad monk by the marble columns near the altar. The click of the Captain’s boots echoed in the lofty structure, and Aramis winced as the sound reverberated inside his head. He narrowed his eyes as Treville approached the monk, who held out a hand in greeting. Their voices were pitched too low for the marksman to hear the words exchanged, but he watched Treville gesture back toward him and grew concerned as the monk’s expression instantly changed to one of alarm.

As Treville led the monk toward the front of the church, Aramis stepped back into the vestibule, his hands nervously gripping and releasing the soft felt of his hat. His stomach knotted in fear and pain, uneasy at the monk’s expression. As the two men approached, he saw the dismay in the monk’s eyes. If his memories continued to remain buried, he feared he would fail not only his friends, but his country and church as well.

“Is it true?” the monk asked in a shaking voice as soon as they strode within Aramis’ reach. “The book has been lost?”

Aramis glanced at Treville, who shrugged apologetically. “We are unsure of its fate at the present,” he admitted. “But if my friends are alive, I am sure they have kept it safe.”

“Your Captain has told me you cannot remember what happened?”

Aramis shifted, wincing as the stitches in his side pulled. He shook his head, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry.” He looked up when he felt a hand on his arm, smiling gratefully at Treville for the support.

“Aramis is not to blame,” he said with authority. “He was gravely wounded yet made it back to Paris to report the attack. His head wound has prevented him from recalling what took place, but he is here now, despite his condition, to make things right.”

The monk looked the younger man up and down, seeming to find substance in Treville’s words.

“No,” he agreed. “This man is not to blame.” He turned, motioning for the Musketeers to follow him toward the back of the abbey. “Come. This is a conversation best held in private.”

He led them to a small room, just off the main cloister walk, bereft of furniture save for an upholstered wooden chair and small writing table. Aramis swallowed, the pain in his head increasing as the monk closed the door behind them. He swayed, reaching out to the nearest wall to steady himself, his vision graying around the edges.

“You look pale, my son,” the monk said, observing the younger man. “Perhaps you should sit.”

Before he could protest, Treville clasped a hand around his arm and with the other firmly against his back, guided him across the tiled floor to the small chair, pressing him down onto the seat. A glass of water appeared before him and Aramis accepted it, sipping gratefully, sighing in relief as the cool liquid slid down his throat to his stomach, quelling some of the building nausea. 

“Aramis?”

The Musketeer nodded, taking a deep breath as the he regained control of his senses. “I’m all right, Captain.”

“You’re far from all right,” Treville corrected. “I must have been a fool for allowing you to come.”

Aramis smiled, conciliatory. “Despite outward appearances, I was the best man for the job. You are too worthy of a commander to have ignored this.”

“You are the Musketeer called Aramis,” the monk stated.

Aramis nodded. “Yes. We have met?”

“When you and your friends arrived with the Cardinal’s missive.” He stepped toward the small desk and lifted the top, retrieving a parchment from inside. He handed it to Aramis. “You do not recall this?”

Aramis accepted the parchment, letting his fingers run across the broken seal. The large R pressed into the red wax was familiar enough, but Aramis had no recollection of this particular letter. Inside, the Cardinal’s precise handwriting instructed the monks to turn the book over to these Musketeers with little preamble. He assumed the seal had been intact when they’d arrived, and since he’d not read the letter previously, he was not surprised the words elicited no recollection. “I’m afraid the memory still eludes me.” He handed the parchment back to the monk. “I’m sorry.”

“And you have no idea what happened to the book?”

Aramis shook his head. “I presume we left here without incident?”

“The four of you left soon after you took possession of the book.” The monk wrung his hands together, shook his head and started to pace in agitation. “This is not good,” he mumbled. “I warned the Cardinal of the dangers of exposing such a secret. The ampule should never have been moved.”

Treville stepped forward, exchanging a look of confusion with Aramis.

“Ampule?” He held out a hand to stop the monk’s pacing. “I thought the package was a book?”

The monk, seeming to suddenly realize his thoughts had been voiced out loud, sighed and rubbed a hand along his chin.

“The book was a mere cover for the actual treasure,” he carefully explained. He shifted his eyes to Aramis and shook his head sympathetically. “I am distressed the Cardinal did not explain to you the importance of what you were carrying. You may have been more vigilant if you had understood the magnitude of your task.”

Before Aramis could respond, he felt the weight of Treville’s hand on his shoulder. 

“My men always perform their duties to the best of their abilities. They would have fought to protect whatever they had been charged with no matter the value.”

Aramis dipped his head, smiling softly, quietly thanking the Captain for his conviction.

“Of course,” the monk said hurriedly. “I meant no disrespect.”

“The Cardinal can be… less than forthcoming at times,” Treville continued, accepting the monk’s apology on Aramis’ behalf. “What exactly didn’t we know about this mission?”

The monk sighed and buried his hands in his sleeves. He turned and faced the two Musketeers, his voice hushed as he began his explanation.

“The book was created as a concealment – a camouflage – for what is known as La Sainte Larmé.” He paused as Aramis’ eyes widened.

“The Holy Tear of Christ,” the Musketeer breathed. “The existence of La Sainte Larmé is but a legend.”

The monk nodded solemnly. “It has been rumored to exist for centuries, hidden away in churches and abbeys all over the world.”

“And you are telling us this legendary tear is real?” Treville found himself struggling to understand. “It was hidden inside the book?”

Again, the monk responded affirmatively. “It was discovered nearly a decade ago, and has been hidden in many different places, always moving so to keep its true location a secret.”

“And the Cardinal wanted the ampule moved to Paris.” Aramis concluded.

“Yes, His Eminence decreed it would be safer under his protection.” He shrugged. “He was able to convince Rome of his intentions and we were ordered to turn it over to the Cardinal’s emissaries.” He nodded his head to Aramis. “You and your friends.”

Treville squeezed his shoulder then stepped away, hand to his chin, his eyes narrowed, his expression one of contemplation.

“Why would Richelieu order the ampule moved when it was safe here under the care of the monks of the abbey?” Aramis wondered aloud.

Treville shook his head, dropping his hand and returning his attention to the other men. “It’s not our place to decipher the intricacies of the Cardinal’s mind,” he said with a subtle roll of his eyes. 

Aramis grinned, hearing the unvoiced ‘thank goodness’ loud and clear.

“But,” the Captain continued, “knowing of His Eminence’s ruse does not change our directive. We still must find the others and determine what happened to them and the property placed in your charge.”

Aramis nodded grimly and pushed himself to his feet, the pulse in his head increasing slightly at the movement. “Again, I apologize for any discontent this may have brought to you and the abbey.” He bowed slightly, relieved to see the light of forgiveness in the monk’s eyes. “I assure you I will not rest until we have answers.”

“For your own peace of mind as well as my own, I believe.”

Aramis dipped his head in accord.

“Please, allow us to provide you with something to eat before you go.”

Treville looked to Aramis. The marksman was still pale, but he was standing confidently, determined to continue their journey at any cost.

“Thank you, but we must be on our way while we still have some hours of daylight left.” Treville shook hands with the monk and motioned Aramis toward the door. “We will send word when we find the ampule and our missing men.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 

Aramis grew quiet as they left the abbey, his mind occupied with the thoughts of his friends and their potential fate. The fact the Cardinal had neglected to inform them of the true focus of their mission was no surprise, Richelieu’s scheming ways and lack of trust more than familiar to the Musketeers by now. As Treville had pointed out, knowing the actual details of the task would not have changed their dedication to their duty one bit; he was convinced it was that dedication that had made it impossible for the others to follow him and perhaps had even led to their deaths.

No. He refused to consider that. Athos was a consummate commander as well as one of the best swordsmen in all of France. Porthos was a survivor, a fighter without equal, standing above any man who sought to harm him. And d’Artagnan… while still young and impetuous, his natural brazenness had been tempered by their careful tutelage, and though he still exhibited the willfulness of youth, he would no more allow his actions to place his comrades in peril than Aramis himself.

They were alive. Aramis refused to believe anything else.

Then why had he returned alone? Why had there been no word from them? He and Treville had left the garrison the moment Aramis had been reasonably fit to travel. Perhaps they had sent word and the messenger had passed them on the road? Aramis shook his head to clear it. He had not been altogether attentive to their journey, trusting in the Captain to keep their heading true, but he could remember no messengers riding with haste toward Paris, and he was confident the Captain would’ve stopped anyone who made any indication of recognition toward their pauldrons.

“Aramis?” Treville’s voice broke into his thoughts and he raised his head, rolling his neck to ease some of the throbbing in the back of his skull. They were at a crossroads. One lane leading directly back to Paris, the other a more easterly path winding through a wooded area that would provide cover and protection from the elements. He squinted, the sun directly in his eyes, just beginning to settle behind the grove of soaring oaks…

_… The first shot rent the silence of the woods, the bullet’s burning path arcing along his side. The initial shock of the wound unseated him from his horse, his head smacking hard as he tumbled to the unforgiving ground causing his vision to waver as men surged from the trees, pistols raised, swords unsheathed. Dazed from his abrupt meeting with the hard earth, Aramis squinted into the distance, counting at least five masked men bounding toward them. The bandits were on foot, but they outnumbered the Musketeers who had been caught unaware. The Cardinal’s precious book remained tucked away inside Aramis’ saddlebag, and Aramis watched helplessly as the animal reared in response to the approaching attack and the bag slipped from the horses flank. The bag hit the ground and fell open, spitting the book from its protective embrace. As the book tumbled across the forest floor, the binding snapped and the book fell open, its empty pages blowing in the breeze like an invisible hand turned them. Scrambling across the sharp rocks and twigs, he reached for the book, his eyes blinking rapidly as he stared at the empty pages._

_His head swam, and he could make little sense of what his eyes were seeing. He held a hand to the back of his skull, feeling a tender lump already rising beneath his hair, wincing as he pressed against it. His stomach lurched and he swallowed convulsively, hoping to keep the nausea at bay long enough to get to his feet and aid his brothers in the fight. Breathing harshly through his nose, he shoved the book back into the bag and pulled it to his chest. He reached out, using a nearby tree to pull himself up, leaning heavily against the weathered bark as the world spun dizzily around him. With his eyes squeezed tightly to ward off the vertigo, he could hear the clash of swords nearby, knowing instinctively it was the heavier blade of Portho’s schianova swinging through the air._

_“Aramis!”_

_Athos voice came from somewhere behind him and be turned, groaning as the furrow the bullet had wrought in his side made itself known. He pressed a hand to the wound, feeling the sticky warmth of blood seeping through his fingers._

_“Aramis!” Athos voice sounded insistent, and he forced his eyes open, squinting into the sun, the silhouette of his friend easily distinguishable from the man he was currently engaging in battle. “Go! Get the book to safety!”_

_Loathe to leave his friends in such peril, Aramis’ mind was clouded by pain and he could only do as he was bade. Believing the others would make short work of these bandits and catch up with him quickly, Aramis tossed the saddlebag across the horse’s withers and grabbed for the reins, clumsily mounting and twisting the horse’s head toward the road, away from the ongoing clang of steel. He slapped his hand against the animal’s flank and dug his boots into its girth, spurring it into a run…._

… “We were attacked,” he breathed, his eyes tracking the edge of the trees, the battle playing out in his mind like a hazy dream. “Near those oaks,” He twisted in the saddle, his eyes tracing down the other path. “I was wounded… Athos ordered me to run; to protect the book.” He frowned as the image of the book returned, its empty white pages ruffling in the wind,

His eyes snapped to Treville’s, and the Captain leaned forward as if to steady him.

“They were blank,” Aramis announced.

“What were blank?” Treville moved his mount closer, ducking his head in an attempt to study the younger man’s face. “Are you all right?”

Aramis continued, ignoring the Captain’s inquiry, his face a mask of anger. “The Cardinal played us for fools. The pages were all blank. Why send us out without telling us what we’re really trying to protect. What kind of man does that?”

Treville shook his head slowly, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed in concern. “You know the Cardinal never reveals his plans. Perhaps we should find a place to rest. Your injuries –“

“I’m fine, Captain, I assure you,” he interrupted crisply, seething at the injustice of Richelieu’s actions.

Treville nodded. “I understand your anger, Aramis, but Richelieu’s deceit is not our focus now.”

Aramis deflated, nodding solemnly, his eyes squeezing shut as the ache in his skull, momentarily forgotten in his fury, began anew. “You are right, of course. If we had not been attacked, if the book had not fallen to the ground, we would probably have never known about the Cardinal’s deception. Despite his actions, it is still our duty to find this worthless book and the treasure it contains.”

“If you had the book when you escaped, why was it not with you when you returned to the garrison?”

Aramis shook his head, frustrated. “My memory comes in fits and gaps. I cannot control it.”

“But you do remember Athos ordering you to run?”

At Aramis’ reluctant nod, Treville sighed. “It was the right move, Aramis. Do not believe otherwise. You know as well as I that Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan are more than capable of taking care of themselves. Securing the book was what was important, and you being wounded…”

Aramis rubbed a hand across his side, wincing at the sharp pull of the stitches beneath his doublet. “I was no use to them in a fight, so it was a tactical advantage for me to escape with the book while they kept the bandits from pursuit.”

Treville smiled. “A good soldier knows when to withdraw as well as attack.”

Aramis nodded, accepting the Captain’s subtle praise.

“Do you remember which way you headed?” Treville asked, turning in his saddle to survey the area. “Did you take the other road?”

Aramis took a deep breath and looked around, his eyes alighting on a hill directly opposite the woods. He raised a hand and pointed to the horizon. “There. I remember heading for the road, but moving past it in that direction. I pointed the horse toward that hill, but honestly have no memory of reaching it.”

“Then we will head that way and see what else we can find to trigger your memories.” Treville swung his horse around Aramis’ stopping level with the younger Musketeer. “We’re getting closer, Aramis. We will find them.”

The marksman was buoyed by the confidence in his commander’s voice, but it couldn’t completely erase the cold tendril of fear that still wound around his heart. The longer his friends reamined missing, the less chance they had of finding them alive, and he knew his life hung in the balance alongside theirs. “I pray you’re right.”

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 

Aramis pressed a hand to his side, gasping at the sharp pain the mild force educed. His side felt warm and wet under the bandage. He knew he was bleeding, the constant movement of the ride having pulled at the tender flesh, tearing at least a few of the stitches holding the gash together. It was painful, but still secondary to the throbbing ache in his head. 

They had been following a narrow, rutted road for the last hour, and Aramis tried to ignore the Captain’s increasingly concerned glances. He knew he was more of a liability than a reliable soldier at the moment, but he forced himself to keep moving, not wanting to be any more of a hindrance to the Captain.

He shivered as the sun began to set, disappearing behind a low hill in the distance, red and orange tendrils reaching up to paint the sky in vibrant colors. It would be a beautiful sight – if he were in any frame of mind to appreciate it. But the constant pain and the concern for his friends had worn him down, and he knew if he didn’t stop soon he would be physically unable to go on.

Apparently Treville had come to the same conclusion.

“I believe there is s village a few lieu ahead,” the older man said as he dropped back to ride alongside Aramis. “We will stop there for the night. It will be good for the horses to rest and safer to avoid riding through the night.”

“A soft bed will be welcome,” Aramis admitted. He smiled, relieved, silently thanking the Captain for his pretext, knowing full well it was his condition that was causing the man’s tacit caution. 

They rode in silence the rest of the way to the village. They stopped their horses in front of a long building located in the center of the village square that they assumed to be an inn. Aramis’ shoulders slumped, relishing the sudden lack of motion, gathering his strength for the pain he knew was to come in dismounting. Steeling himself, he wrapped an arm around his torso – a feeble attempt to stabilize the wound. Foregoing his customary forward dismount in favor of hanging on to the saddle as long as possible, he eased his leg back and over the horse’s flanks, letting himself drop to the ground.

He felt Treville’s arms support him as his knees gave on impact, keeping him upright until his shaking legs decided to support his weight.

“Thank you,” he breathed, not daring to look at the Captain, knowing the concern in the man’s eyes would be his undoing. 

Treville stepped back, hovering as Aramis found his footing and moved away from the horse, handing the reins to the young boy who had approached. 

“Take good care of them,” Aramis smiled at the lad. “They deserve it.”

The boy nodded and led the horses toward the small stable next to the inn. Aramis felt a hand on his shoulder and bowed his head, allowing Treville to steer him to the narrow door.

Inside was quiet – quieter than a tavern had any right to be. The fire in the hearth cast an eerie glow around the mostly empty room, making it seem colder than it actually was. An old man with long, white hair was the only patron, leaning over his tankard, obviously lost in a world of his own. Another man with a large, round stomach stood behind the makeshift bar on the far side of the room. He looked up in surprise as the two Musketeers entered, wiped his hands on a rag and moved into the main room, his arm extended.

“Welcome, messieurs. Can I offer you something to drink, or perhaps some supper?”

Treville took his hand. “Both would be appreciated. We have ridden far and are in need of rest.”

Aramis had turned toward the fire and the innkeeper caught sight of his pauldron, his round eyes widening almost comically. “You are Musketeers?”

Treville nodded tiredly.

“You are here then for the others?”

Both soldiers’ heads swiveled immediately. In tandem, they took a step toward the man who leaned back, eyes shifting from one to the other nervously.

“The others?” Aramis asked in a low voice. “You mean other Musketeers?”

The innkeeper nodded and held up a hand with three fingers extended.

“Thank God,” the marksman sighed in relief. “Are they here?” He looked around the inn, spotting a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. He headed toward it, but a hand shot out, staying him.

“Oh no, Monsieur. They are at the church.”

“The church?”

“Yes, Father Boudreaux is the closest thing we have to a surgeon here. He was seeing to their wounds.”

Aramis’ heart seized at the man’s words and he swayed, Treville’s firm grip on his arm the only thing keeping him on his feet. “They are hurt?”

“They were wounded in a skirmish,” the keeper admitted. “But the last I heard, they were recovering well under the Father’s care.”

Aramis lowered his head and gripped Treville’s hand, which remained steadfastly on his arm.

“Where is the church, my friend?” Treville inquired, allowing Aramis a moment to compose himself.

“Just at the end of the lane. It’s not much, but it’s all we have.”

“Thank you.” Treville nodded, effectively dismissing the man, who stepped back hesitantly. The Captain turned to Aramis, grasping him by both arms, alarmed to see the younger man had gone very pale. “Perhaps you should stay –“

Aramis shook his head quickly. “No. If they are alive, I must see for myself.”

Treville sighed. “Fine. But once we ascertain they are all right, you will rest.”

Aramis’ smile reached his eyes for the first time since their journey began. “As soon as I see they’re alive, Captain, I will sleep for a week.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Though the ache in his head and the pain in his side still pulsed, Aramis was determined to make it to the church of his own volition. Treville remained at his side, but did not interfere with his progress, instead following close to his side, ready to lend aid if need be. As they approached the rustic stone church, a small man emerged from the great oak door holding a torch, his eyes widening, his lips parted in a smile as the two Musketeers stepped into the glowing light of the flame.

“Monsieur Aramis,” the priest said as he rushed forward, taking the marksman’s hand in his. “It is good to see you well…” He leaned forward as he studied Aramis’ face, pale even in the golden glow of the torch. “Though I fear you are not as well as I’d hoped.” 

“That’s what I’ve been telling him,” Treville snorted. He bowed as the diminutive priest turned to him. “I am Captain Treville. The innkeeper said some of my men were in your care.”

Father Boudreaux smiled. “They are injured, but doing quite well.” He returned his attention to Aramis. “They have been concerned for you. It has been difficult keeping them from moving about, eager as they are to return to Paris to learn of your fate.”

“Will you take me to them?”

The priest smiled at Aramis’ heartfelt request. “Of course. This way.”

He led them into the church, passing through a dark chapel and into a hallway, culminating in a large common room, lit with candles and a warm fire in the hearth. Inside the room stood a round wooden table. Leaning comfortably in their chairs, bowls and cups before them, sat Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan. They looked up as Father Boudreaux led the new arrivals through the doorway, and Aramis felt dizzy with relief.

“Aramis!” Porthos pushed himself from his chair and began to limp heavily across the floor. Aramis frowned, taking in his friend’s haggard appearance, the bloodstained bandage around his right thigh and the bruises on his face and arms.

“Porthos,” Aramis gasped. He tried to draw air, but it was as if his lungs had suddenly forgotten how to function. His vision swam and a tingle began in his fingers and toes, moving up his legs and arms, swiftly encompassing his entire body. He watched as Porthos expression changed from one of delight to alarm and the big man quickened his approach. Aramis tried to take a step, concerned at his friend’s distress, but his legs shook, threatening to topple him. His head and his side pulsed in time, and he raised a hand to press against the bullet wound, surprised to find his doublet tacky with blood. He stared at his bloodstained hand then raised confused, pained eyes. Dots began to form in his vision, blotting out the sight of his friend, arms extended, almost within reach. He could see his name form on Porthos’ lips, but the thud of his heart beating rapidly in his ears blocked all other sound. As the dots grew, painting his vision black completely, his reserves finally gave out, and he tipped forward into Porthos’ waiting arms.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

The low murmur of conversation woke him, the familiar voices sending a pulse of joy through his heart. He shifted, longing to see their faces, but his lids were far too heavy to open. The slight movement caused the dull ache in his side to flair and he moaned. A familiar hand settled gently in his hair.

“Easy, ‘Mis.” Porthos voice was a deep rumble, a welcome growl he had feared never to hear again. “You’re all right. Everythin’s all right. Just relax, we’ll be done in a moment.”

He became aware of hands on his side, smoothing a cool poultice across his wound. The smell of mint and black mustard wafted in the air, the scent doing as much to calm him as the soft strokes of Porthos’ fingers through his hair.

He shivered. A cool breeze played across his skin and he realized his chest was exposed. He frowned, turning his head in discomfort.

Porthos’ chuckle warmed him from the inside. “I know, I know. As soon as the prêtre is finished, I’ll tuck you in myself. Just try ‘n relax, my friend. We’ve got you. You’re safe now.”

Aramis leaned into Porthos’ touch, trusting in his brother’s words, content to do just as he was bid.

Good to his word, a warm blanket was soon raised to his shoulders, Porthos’ large hands tucking the material around him before returning to card slowly through his hair.

“How is he?”

Athos’ voice was close by, probably standing just behind Porthos’ chair.

“He needs rest.” 

Aramis tried to place the soft voice, the diminutive form of the priest floating in his mind. Father… Boudreaux? 

“The needlework was torn and he lost some blood, but he is fortunate there is no sign of infection nor fever. If we can keep him still for a few days, he should recover fully.”

“You hear that, ‘Mis? You’re goin’ t’be fine and fit in no time.”

“If we can keep him still,” Athos added drolly.

“I’ll sit on ‘im if need be.”

“I believe that may defeat the purpose.”

Aramis let the banter wash over him, relaxing into its familiarity.

“What about his head wound, Father?” d’Artagnan’s voice joined the conversation and Aramis felt the last shard of fear in his heart melt away. “His memories?”

The priest sighed. “What your Captain has relayed is troubling, but your friend has been remembering things along your journey, has he not?”

“Yes,” Treville’s voice came from further away, perhaps still seated at the table near the hearth. “The memories have come in fragments, but the blanks have been filling in as we journeyed closer to our objective.”

“Then I would presume his memories will return as he heals. He has tried to force them in his haste to find you, now he can relax and let them return of their own accord.”

“If we had known…” Porthos’ voice held more than a touch of self-reproach.

“We had no cause for alarm.” Aramis could detect the guilt in Athos tone, belaying his words. 

Guilt? His brow furrowed. Why would his friends feel guilty?

“He hid his weakness well,” the priest agreed. “I knew he was injured, but he refused my offer of help and he seemed quite capable. If I had but known his true condition, I would have been more insistent he stay and not attempt to ride for Paris.”

Oh. He cringed, knowing his friends’ current feelings of remorse were his doing.

“The fault was not yours, Father,” Treville consoled the priest. “Aramis is a soldier. He performed his duty admirably. You had no way of knowing the toll the journey would take.”

The Captain’s straightforward conviction brough a smile to his lips, and Aramis struggled to open his eyes, the need to see the faces of his friends and assure them he was all right overwhelming.

“Hey there,” Porthos smiled as Aramis’ eyes focused on him. “It’s good to see you, my friend.” The big man’s relief was palpable, and Aramis couldn’t help but return the grin.

“And you,” Aramis croaked, coughing at the scratch he felt in his throat.

D’Artagnan hurried to the pitcher on the stand next to the bed, poured some water into a small cup and handed it to Porthos, who gently lifted Aramis’ head.

“Here.” He placed the cup to Aramis’ lips, waiting patiently while the marksman sipped at the cool liquid. When he was sated, he relaxed into the pillow, letting his eyes rake across the three faces he had only dared hoped to see again.

He remembered Porthos limping toward him and tensed, his eyes searching the big man for any sign of pain. “You were limping.”

Porthos smiled as he nodded. “Took a sword to the leg. But don’t worry, the good Father patched it up. His needlework is almost as fine as yours.”

Aramis returned the grin, relieved. “Athos? D’Artagnan?” He shifted his gaze to each of them, his eyes widening at the livid bruises along the side of Athos’ face. Porthos chuckled, answering for the others. “d’Artagnan took a cut to the back – it didn’t need stitches but we were afraid it would open up if he got on a horse. That’s why we delayed our return a few days.”

Aramis was still looking at Athos, studying the dark purple, blue and green skin framing his cheek and eye.

“Athos forgot to duck; took a branch to the face,” Porthos explained. He craned his neck, giving the swordsman a teasing grin. “I think it’s improved his looks a bit, eh?”

Aramis smiled. “The color does set off his eyes.”

“At least I’m still standing,” Athos pointed out, a grin playing on his lips. 

“You are,” Aramis admitted, pushing himself up against the wall with a pained grunt.

“Easy,” Porthos admonished. “We just stitched you back together.”

“I would advise against moving too much,” Father Boudreaux cautioned. “But then, since you are here, it appears you do not exactly do what is in your best interest.”

“I’m surprised the Captain allowed you to accompany him.” 

Athos looked over his shoulder at Treville, who simply shrugged. He raised a hand as if saying ‘what can you do?’

“Like he gave ‘im a choice.” Porthos fussed about, shifting the pillow behind his friend’s back to support him. 

“I needed to remember what happened,” Aramis explained. “And the best way for that to occur was to retrace whatever led to the loss in the first place.”

“Makes sense.” D’Artagnan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall next to the bed. “And it did lead them here.”

“Why did you not send word?”

Athos returned to his seat at the table before answering Aramis’ question. “As we’ve explained to the Captain, we did. But in your haste to ride to our rescue – and appease the Cardinal – you did not leave time enough for the messenger to arrive at the garrison.”

Aramis exchanged a look of chagrin with Treville. 

“What happened to the book?” d’Artagnan asked. “The Captain said you did not return with it.”

Aramis frowned, his joy at finding his friends alive and mostly unscathed had overshadowed his own dilemma momentarily. “I…” he rubbed a hand across the lump on the back of his head. “I don’t…”

“Perhaps I could shed some light on the matter?”

All eyes turned to the priest, who had retreated to a corner of the room to allow the Musketeers to converse. 

When he had their attention, Boudreaux cleared his throat and focused his gaze on Aramis.

“You arrived a day before your friends. You were hurt, disoriented, but adamant I help you protect this book you carried. You explained who you were and that you were on a mission for the Cardinal himself; you begged me to find a place that was safe for this treasure while you returned to Paris for reinforcements. You do not recall this?”

Aramis shook his head, his eyes losing focus as the priest continued. “I led you to the cellar beneath the church. It is seldom used except to store wine and some old tomes and relics. I told you to hide the book among them. It would be safe.”…

_…. Aramis tumbled from his horse, his grip on the pommel the only thing keeping him from collapsing entirely. The pain in his side burned like fire, and his head throbbed relentlessly, making it harder and harder to think clearly. He had no idea how he’d found his way to the village, the small church on the edge of the lane beckoning to him like a beacon. As he leaned his head against the horse’s withers, he sensed a presence behind him and lowered a hand to the hilt of his sword, slowly turning to confront whomever approached._

_“Easy, my son. I wish you no harm.”_

_The small man before him was clad in a simple tunic, belted at the waist with a frayed rope. The large crucifix hanging around his neck announced his vocation._

_“You are a priest?”_

_“Father Boudreaux,” the shorter man dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”_

_Aramis managed to stand without the support of his mount and placed a hand over his heart, the other held tight against his still bleeding wound. “I am Aramis of the King’s Musketeers.”_

_“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Aramis.” He stepped closer, holding out a hand as Aramis swayed. “Are you well?”_

_“I am in need of your assistance, Father,” the Musketeer admitted._

_“Of course, please, come inside and we will see to your wounds.”_

_Aamis shook his head, squeezing his lids against the sudden bout of dizziness the movement induced. “I am fine. It is not for myself I ask your support.”_

_Boudreaux looked at him a moment as if he were mad before finally accepting his statement, tilting his head in inquiry. “Then what may I do for you?”_

_Aramis turned and reached for the saddlebag, still lying across the horse’s flank. “I need to secure something. I fear there are men following me who would try to obtain what is within this bag. They have already tried once, attacking my friends and I a few lieu from here.”_

_“Your friends?” Boudreax inquired, his gaze shifted to the road, obviously searching for the others._

_Aramis’ breath caught in his throat. “They remained behind to ensure my escape. I had hoped to see them following, but…”_

_“I’m sure they will be along.” The priest came closer, laying a comforting hand on the Musketeers arm. “In the meantime, please, come inside. We will find a place to hide your package, then see to your wounds.”_

_Again Aramis shook his head. “I cannot delay, Father. I must return to Paris to inform the Captain what has happened. I fear, in my condition, I will not be able to defend against another attack. Is there someplace secure I leave the book until I can ensure its safe delivery to Cardinal Richelieu?”_

_At the mention of the Cardinal’s name, the little priest’s eyes widened. “Of course. Please. Follow me.”_

_He led Aramis to a narrow door near the back of the small church, lighting a candle and preceding him down a curving stone staircase. When they reached the bottom, the priest reached up and used the flame of the candle to light a larger torch, bathing the musty room with a soft orange glow._

_“This is mostly used to store wine and some old books and trinkets. Nobody comes down here except myself – and even that is on rare occasions. If it is a book you must hide, I believe leaving it among the old tomes we have in the corner would be a safe enough place.”_

_Even through the pulsing pain in his head, Aramis could see the logic of the priest’s words._

_“Yes,” he breathed a sigh of relief. “I believe it would be safe here.” He moved across the dirt floor, his gait uneven, his vision wavering more than what he could blame on the flickering light. He moved a few of the old tomes and dug Richelieu’s book from the saddlebag. Remembering what he had seen when the book had fallen upon the ground, he opened it, frowning at the blank pages within._

_Why would a book with no words be important? It made no sense. Admittedly, he was not thinking clearly at the moment, but even in his present state, he knew there was something amiss. He ran his hand across the page, stopping when his fingers felt a bump near the binding. Holding it up to allow the torchlight to flicker across it, Aramis was surprised to see a tiny, flat stone bottle peeking out from a space between the binding and the pages. Digging in with his fingers, he managed to lever the bottle from the book, holding it up to the light._

_The bottle fit neatly in the palm of his hand, the firelight playing over the intricate carvings on either side. As the light danced across its surface, he could just make out a crest containing three fleur-de-lis in the center of the smooth stone._

_Knowing time was of the essence, he tucked the bottle into his ammunition pouch and placed the book on the pile, covering it with a few of the other dusty tomes. Turning he nodded to the priest._

_“Allow no one down here, Father. My visit here must remain a secret. Three men – Musketeers – may inquire of me. Inform them I have ridden to Paris to report.”_

_Boudreaux nodded his accord and led the Musketeer back up the stairs…_

...“Aramis?”

The marksman started as Porthos’ voice broke into his thoughts, and he shifted his gaze to his friend’s concerned face.

“You with us now?”

Aramis nodded, his eyes searching the room. “Where is Father Boudreaux?”

“He went to retrieve the book,” Athos informed him. “He said he remembered where you hid it when you stopped here.”

“We don’t need –“ Aramis statement was interrupted by a crash and a scream coming from the far side of the church. Treville and Athos rose from their chairs immediately, darting to the door. Athos held up a hand as Porthos struggled to his feet. “No, Porthos, you and d’Artagnan stay here with Aramis.” He grabbed a pistol from their pile of weapons near the door and tossed it to the big man. “The Captain and I will investigate.”

Porthos caught the weapon easily and, reluctantly nodded, resuming his seat, the pistol balanced on his thigh. D’Artagnan moved closer to the door, sword in his hand, eyes on the hall beyond the room.

“We don’t need the book,” Aramis said, his voice loud in the sudden silence.

Porthos looked at him askance. “What?”

“Our returning with the book was not the Cardinal’s true intent.”

Porthos laid a hand against his cheek. “You don’t have a fever. What in the hell are you goin’ on about?”

Aramis sighed and batted his friend’s arm aside. “The monk at the abbey explained it to Treville and I. The book was nothing but a cover for the true object of Richelieu’s interest.” He made an attempt to push himself from the bed, but a sharp pain in his side – as well as Porthos’ restraining hand – stayed him.

“D’Artagnan,” Aramis grunted, pointing to his pouch on the floor near the rest of his weapons. “My pouch. Bring it to me, please.”

The young man raised a questioning brow, but Porthos simply shrugged and tipped his chin toward the pouch, silently telling the Gascon to humor their friend. d’Artagnan picked up the pouch and handed it to Aramis, who immediately opened it and dug inside. A moment later he smiled in triumph, and produced a small, stone bottle from its depths.

 

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

“What’s that?” Porthos stared at the tiny bottle Aramis held in his hand.

The marksman looked up, his eyes narrowed. “Cardinal Richelieu’s true desire.”

Confusion painted Porthos’ face. “Where did it come from? The monk at the abbey gave us a book.”

“They’re back,” d’Artagnan announced before Aramis could explain Richelieu’s subterfuge. The Gascon stepped back from the doorway as Athos hurried into the room. Father Boudreaux followed, supported by the Captain, the priest’s face pale, blood dripping from a cut on the side of his head.

Aramis began to push himself up again.

“Stay where you are, Aramis,” Treville ordered, leading the priest to the table, and gently lowering him into a chair. “It is nothing serious. Athos and I can handle it.”

Aramis was about to protest when Boudreaux smiled at him, reinforcing Treville’s order. “Your Captain is correct, monsieur.” He held a hand to his head, touching the wound tentatively. “It is a minor injury and has already ceased bleeding. I assure you I am fine.”

Aramis sighed in relief and relaxed back against the wall.

“What happened?”

Athos poured a generous amount of wine into a cup and handed it to the priest, who sipped it gratefully. “Two men,” he explained. “They were waiting for me when I returned from the cellar. They hit me, grabbed the book from my arms and fled before your friends could come to my aid.” He winced as Treville patted the wound with a wine soaked cloth, lifting his eyes to Aramis in remorse. “I am sorry. I should have been more diligent.”

Aramis smiled. “Do not worry, Father. As it turns out, the book was of little importance.”

Athos turned to him, arching a brow. “The Captain expressed the same sentiment when I suggested we pursue the thieves. Perhaps you could elaborate?”

“He was just about to do that,” Porthos crossed his arms and raised a tilted head expectantly, his attention focused on his wounded friend.

Aramis held up the small stone ampule still clutched in his hand.

“This is what all the fuss has been about,” the marksman announced. “La Sainte Larmé.”

“The Holy tear?” Athos repeated. “I’m afraid we are not all as versed in Catholic tradition as you, my friend.”

“The Holy Tear of Christ,” Father Boudreaux breathed reverently, his eyes fixed on the small ampule. “I was not even convinced of its existence.”

Porthos looked from the ampule to the priest, finally returning his gaze to Aramis when it became apparent Boudreaux was too overcome to continue. He pointed to the tiny relic. “We were attacked for that?”

Aramis nodded, handing the ampule to the bigger man. “Though I’m not entirely sure the bandits knew the true prize any more than we did. Supposedly, this ampule contains the tear of Christ. According to the Bible, it was shed by the Son of God upon the death of Lazarus, caught by an angel and given to Mary Magdalene to keep safe. I have read of its existence, but…”

“You never believed it real,” Boudreaux finished for him. Aramis shrugged in contrition. “Nor did I,” the priest admitted. “Though we are taught to take the scriptures at face value, not everything written can be believed… or proven.”

Aramis dipped his head in agreement. “Apparently, the Cardinal believes. I have no idea how he heard of the ampule’s existence – or for that matter if this truly is the fabled La Sainte Larmé. But I do know if we return this treasure to Richelieu, it is his nature to use it for his own end.”

Treville had finished cleaning the wound on the priest’s head and Boudreaux smiled in thanks before rising and moving to the edge of Aramis’ bed. Porthos immediately handed the ampule to the priest like it had grown scorching hot while in his hand.

“I have heard many stories about the tear.” Boudreaux held the bottle up to the light, his eyes raking across the intricate carvings in the stone. “One of them is that the tear contains healing properties. Anyone who touches it will be blessed with eternal life.” 

“That’s just what we need,” Porthos scoffed. “Cardinal Richelieu breathin’ down our necks forever.”

“The Cardinal has been looking quite pale as of late,” Athos observed.

“How can you tell?” d’Artagnan asked. “I’ve never seen him look anything but deathly pale.”

“He has been complaining of fatigue more often,” Treville contributed. “But considering the man’s normal flair for dramatics, it could mean nothing at all. But, I have known the Cardinal far too long and understand his nature. If this relic is what you believe, I would agree his interest is probably far from sacred.”

Aramis pursed his lips and took a deep breath through his nose, his brow furrowed, his eyes dark with anger. “I cannot in good conscience allow the Cardinal to tarnish something so precious.”

Athos studied his friend for moment, exchanging a look with Porthos before moving to the foot of the bed, directly in the marksman’s line of sight. “Are you sure your reluctance to give the Cardinal what he wants isn’t of a more personal nature?” 

The question held no accusation, but Aramis flinched all the same. He knew Athos was referring to what had happened with Adele, but, after a moment of consideration, he realized his reluctance was not born of jealousy or hurt feelings concerning his lost love, but something much deeper and more private.

“I consider my faith very personal, but no.” He shook his head, raising his eyes to meet Athos’, feeling morally exposed by his friend’s penetrating gaze. “I would not feel comfortable handing this relic over even if Richelieu and I had no previous dispute. I can’t help but believe the man intends to use it for his own gain and that is not something I can condone, let alone take part in.”

“So what can we do? We can’t just lie and tell him we could not recover it.” D’Artagnan didn’t disagree with the assessment, but he expressed a valid point.

Treville sighed, nodding in agreement with the young man. “The Cardinal would relish relaying your failure to the King. He is only looking for an excuse to dismantle the regiment.”

“I will take full responsibility,” Aramis offered. “The rest of you should not have to accept the consequences of my conscience.”

Porthos was already shaking his head. “You forgettin’ our motto? All for one…”

“And one for all,” Aramis finished with a ghost of a smile. “No, my friend. I have not forgotten. But this is something I cannot ask of you.”

“You’re not asking,” d’Artagnan stepped closer. “It’s not like we have any more confidence in the Cardinal’s integrity than you.”

“The book was stolen,” Athos reminded them. “The Father will attest to that.”

Boudreaux, eyes wide at the course the conversation had taken, nodded hesitantly.

“But the Cardinal could still use the failure to steer the King’s displeasure our way,” Treville cautioned. “Failure is something His Majesty does not readily tolerate.”

The room fell into a strained silence and Aramis leaned back against the wall, swallowing against the pain and frustration that still encompassed his body.

The soft voice of Father Boudreaux finally broke the silence. “If you could delay your departure a few days,” he eyed Aramis’ exhausted frame, “and it is something I heartily recommend, I may be able to offer a somewhat… irregular… solution to your dilemma.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“Lying is a sin, Father.” Aramis smiled conspiratorially at the priest. He held up a small stone bottle next to the original relic, admiring the workmanship. “Your friend is indeed an artist.” The carvings, while not exact, were of high quality, close enough to fool anyone who had never laid eyes on the actual La Sainte Larmé… or so they hoped.

They had stayed on for two more days, resting and allowing their injuries to heal. Porthos had become restless soon after they had agreed to the priest’s plan and had been frequenting the tavern, playing cards with the barkeep and whoever happened to wander into the quiet village inn. Athos and Treville had decided to help Father Boudreaux out with some much needed repairs to the little church, and d’Artagnan, unable to lift or move due to the gash across his back, had been forced to play errand boy, supplying them with tools and water as they toiled in the hot sun.

Aramis had been forbidden to rise from his bed for the first day, but had assured his friends he was feeling much stronger after his enforced rest and was allowed to join them outside the following afternoon. As long as he sat quietly and did nothing more strenuous than offer advice – and that was to be kept to a minimum – his presence was welcomed.

The village was a friendly, peaceful place, and Aramis was pleased to see that even Treville had taken to it. The Captain relished the chance to stretch his muscles and use his hands and mind for something other than the King and Cardinal’s bidding. Having no formal responsibilities managed to lighten the Captain’s spirit, and Aramis was pleased to see him smile easily and join in on the camaraderie that came so easily to the other four.

Father Boudreaux had taken the ampule to the village mason who had assured them he could replicate the small bottle in the allotted time. Boudreaux had suggested they deliver exactly what the Cardinal expected, just not what he believed it to be.

“Sometimes small lies take less of a toll on a soul than the results of actions we can never forgive.”

Aramis smiled. “You are a wise and decent man. I believe the ampule will be in good hands.”

Boudreaux blushed at the compliment. “I will endeavor to live up to your trust, Monsieur Aramis.”

“Is this it?” Porthos strode toward them, his limp still noticeable, but much less pronounced than before.

“It is,” Aramis tossed the small bottle to his friend who caught it deftly in his large hands. “Do you think it will fool the Cardinal?”

Porthos shrugged. “It’d fool me. But then I’d have no idea what it was s’posed to look like if I hadn’t seen the real thing with my own two eyes.”

Aramis grinned and patted a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Then let us hope the Cardinal is not so informed as you.”

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

They stopped at a slow moving stream to water the horses, the warm afternoon sun beating down, making Aramis’ skin prickle under his heavy leathers. His head still ached, but it was no longer all encompassing, a dull throb that only became outright pain if he moved too quickly or rode for too long. The furrow in his side was healing, though the stitches itched and he could feel them pulling as the horse cantered along. The others were also feeling lingering effects of their wounds and they stopped frequently to rest, ardently claiming fatigue, though Aramis knew it was mostly for his benefit.

It was the blood loss that had done the most damage, leaving him weak and sporadically lightheaded. He knew from experience the effects would not fade for some time, and he was quietly grateful for his brothers’ obvious consideration of his limitations. Treville had taken his leave earlier, wanting to return to Paris as soon as possible and inform Richelieu and the King personally of their success. Aramis knew the Captain was looking forward to reveling in the Cardinal’s frustration, but suspected the absurdly slow pace was more to blame for the man’s curious haste.

As his horse drank from the stream, Aramis leaned over the clear, cool water and dipped his hand, raising the refreshing liquid to splash along the back of his neck. He shivered as the water ran under the collar of his shirt, tracing a line down his back, easing the heated skin beneath the thick doublet.

“Feels good, eh?”

He chuckled and ran another handful of water over his collar, not bothering to open his eyes, reveling in the sensation.

“It feels blissful, my friend.”

Porthos’ laugh was a low rumble. “Don’t remember you ever using that word when it didn’t have somethin’ to do with a beautiful woman.”

“Paradise comes in many forms, Porthos.”

The familiar click of a pistol froze them. Aramis shifted his gaze to Athos and d’Artagnan a few paces away, already standing, arms raised at their sides. Slowly he turned, not surprised to see five men coming toward them from the trees. Only one of them carried a pistol, but it was primed and aimed straight at his chest.

Three of the other men were armed with swords, the last carried a parrying dagger in one hand, a large familiar book wedged under his arm.

“You are here to return our property, perhaps?”

Aramis grinned at Athos’ query, the man’s familiar, dry sarcasm always music to the marksman’s ears. The bandit with the pistol found the question far less amusing.

“Imagine our surprise when we returned to our employer with this book, only to find it worthless.”

Aramis shrugged, exchanging a look with Porthos. “It does seem quite a waste of their time.”

“Maybe we should apologize?” the big man asked with a feeble attempt at sincerity.

“Of course.” Aramis bowed formally to the bandit. “We are terribly sorry you labored under a false pretense and were forced to steal the wrong item.” His voice dripped with feigned politeness, the grin on his face one of mirth, not regret.

The bandit smiled back, his tone matching the Musketeer’s. “I accept your apology, Monsieur. Perhaps you could make it up to us by giving us what we came for?”

“And what would that be?” d’Artagnan joined the game, his brows raised in innocence.

The bandit raised the pistol and aimed it at Aramis’ head. “I believe you know. Please hand it over before I am forced to do something your friend here may well regret.”

Aramis glanced at Athos who shrugged. “I suppose we have no choice.”

Aramis sighed. “Yes, I see little alternative.” He reached a hand down to his ammunition pouch, pulling the Cardinal’s faux ampule from its depths.

The bandit’s smile increased at the sight of the small stone bottle. “That’s more like it.” He nodded his head to one of his accomplices. “Mouston, secure it.”

Aramis shifted on his feet. “No need, allow me.” With a singular motion he tossed the ampule high into the air toward the man with the pistol. As the bandit’s eyes followed the flying bottle, Aramis gracefully pulled his pistol from his belt, aimed and fired, hitting the bandit square in the chest. His eyes widened at the impact of the bullet and he dropped to his knees, blood flowing from wound. He gasped once then toppled to the ground, the stone bottle landing harmlessly by his side.

The rest of the bandits, stunned at the sudden demise of their leader, turned to Aramis as one, the movements leaving them open to Athos, d’Artagnan and Porthos who were already advancing, swords drawn.

The fight was quick, over in mere minutes, leaving all five bandits dead or bleeding on the ground.

Aramis made his way to the man he’d shot and placed a hand on his neck, sighing and dropping his head in remorse when he felt no sign of life. His hand closed over the bottle on the ground, squeezing it tight.

He felt a presence behind him, a familiar hand landing heavily on his shoulder. 

“They chose their own fate. They left us little choice, Aramis.”

He nodded, knowing Athos was right. Death was not something foreign to him, but he still regretted its occurrence, especially when he had a direct hand in it. He closed the man’s eyes and made the sign of the cross on his forehead, saying a silent prayer for his soul.

“Wonder who this mysterious employer is?” Porthos grunted as he stood, having kneeled to check on one of the other men. 

“It won’t matter,” Athos intoned. “As soon as we get back to Paris, this will all be the Cardinal’s problem.”

Porthos snorted a laugh. “And good riddance if you ask me.”

D’Artagnan retrieved the troublesome book from the grasp of the fifth bandit, and held it out to Athos. “At least we no longer need to explain how we lost this.”

Athos took the book and opened it, leafing through the blank pages. “Not the most stimulating read, but not the worst.” One corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing smile. “But presenting it to the Cardinal will make the ruse all the easier to sell.” He handed the tome to Aramis, who wedged the ampule into the binding where he had found the original. It fit perfectly.

“Fate shines upon the just,” Aramis said with a poignant smile. “I will take this as a sign we are doing the right thing.”

Porthos shrugged. “Not goin’ to argue with that.”

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

“It’s about time, Treville,” Richelieu growled, his voice low in the confines of his office. “Do you have my book?”

The Captain stepped back and indicated for Aramis to step forward. With a flourish a bit more restrained than normal in deference to his wounded side, he presented the prize to the Cardinal, who yanked it from his hands without hesitation, his eyes shining with lewd anticipation.

“Finally, it is in my possession,” he breathed, running a hand across the front of the book reverently. As if suddenly remembering he was not alone, Richelieu pulled the tome to his chest and looked upon the two Musketeers with a haughty air. “You are lucky your men were able to retrieve this treasure, Captain.” He shifted his gaze to Aramis, narrowing his eyes and smiling as if they shared an intimate secret. “I would hate for the King to find you had failed in something so straightforward as the retrieval of a simple book. Although I’m sure you are quite familiar with the disappointment of losing something you thought was safely within your grasp.”

Aramis stiffened, but did not allow any emotion to show. He did not believe the Cardinal knew of his relationship with Adele, but if Richelieu did suspect, Aramis wouldn’t put it past the man to openly gloat.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Treville responded, either not noticing or ignoring the Cardinal’s attempt to intimidate his subordinate. “My men always perform their duties to the best of their abilities. I am sure you will relate that sentiment to the King.”

Richelieu smiled coldly and bowed his head in response. “Now, if you don’t mind, I do have urgent matters to which I must attend.”

The Musketeers bowed and exited the office, both sighing in relief once they had removed themselves from the Cardinal’s presence. They marched through the Louvre without a word, relaxing only when they stepped out onto the portico to find Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan awaiting their arrival.

“Well?” D’Artagnan’s thin patience had been stretched to its limit. “Did it work?”

Aramis looked to Treville who simply raised a brow in response.

“He suspected nothing,” Aramis assured the young man. “I believe the Cardinal will be pleased with his treasure – whatever his intentions.”

“I can’t believe we lied to the Cardinal,” Porthos said sotto-voiced. “Seems kind of…” he shuddered without completing the thought. 

Aramis dipped his head, knowing his reticence in turning over such a valuable artifact to a man whom he had little faith in was the only reason his friends had agreed to this subterfuge. “I am sorry if this brings you distress, my friends, but I am confidant we have done the church a great service by our actions.”

“Distress?” Athos remarked dryly. “I for one am quite pleased with the outcome. It’s not often we are able to come away from a mission for the Cardinal with our integrity intact. I believe this is a cause for celebration.”

“I think you’ve earned a few days off,” Treville agreed. “And if you are not in the Cardinal’s direct line of sight for a while, all the better.”

Aramis smiled, grateful. Porthos still limped, his wound healing but obviously causing him some discomfort, and d’Artagnan moved stiffly, despite his claims of health. Athos’ face was still bruised, the darker purple and blue hues faded to lighter greens and yellows, the swelling gone, the injury no longer quite so daunting.

Aramis still felt moments of weakness, his body slowly adjusting, rebuilding the energy he had lost with the precious blood. His head no longer ached, but he still felt a lingering dizziness that made moving quickly a challenge – especially when mounting or dismounting a horse. After nearly losing his balance when they’d made their way to the Louvre, Porthos had made him promise to stay away from riding until he could raise himself to the saddle without his vision graying around the edges.

As they made their way through the gardens to the main gate, Aramis watched his three friends, allowing himself to finally relax in their company. He could still feel the shadow of fear that had gripped him while they’d searched, the doubt as to whether he would ever see them again a heavy burden on his heart. 

“I know that face,” Porthos sighed, moving closer and placing an arm across Aramis’ shoulders. “That’s your thinkin’ face. Nothin’ good ever comes from that face.”

Aramis chuckled in reply. “I was merely considering how lucky I am to be amongst the best men in France.”

“Only France?” Athos asked, a mischievous smile lifting one side of his mouth.

“Since I have rarely traveled outside the borders of our country, I cannot swear to the honor born of other kingdoms.” Aramis quipped. Porthos pushed him away with a laugh.

They walked on for a few moments until Aramis stopped, causing the others to halt and turn toward him in curiosity.

Aramis felt his heart fill with affection for these men – his family of choice, brothers he knew he could never replace, never let go. “I want you to know, when I couldn’t remember what had happened, when your fates were shrouded in mystery, the only wish I had was to find you alive and whole. I don’t know what I would’ve done if… I don’t think I would’ve survived if –“

Porthos stirred. “Don’t go there, ‘Mis. We’re not goin’ anywhere. You won’t be alone again.”

Aramis smiled; leave it to Porthos to understand his distress without having to hear the words voiced aloud.

He nodded, his throat thick with emotion. “I’m grateful you were all right.” He leaned to the side, his eyes raking over Athos and d’Artagnan, alive and whole. “All of you. It was the only thing that was important to me.”

“Don’t let the Cardinal hear you say that,” d’Artagnan grinned. “I doubt he would share the sentiment.”

“That is indeed proof the man is a fool,” Aramis said, his voice soft with fondness. 

Porthos laughed and placing his arm back across his friend’s shoulders, steered him out onto the street. “Then let us drink to him. A man who will never know true friendship is a man who deserves our pity.”

“Pity the Cardinal?” d’Artagnan scoffed, “I hardly think he deserves it.”

“The merit of all things lie in their difficulty,” Aramis mused. “But considering that this time the good guys seem to have won, I believe we can afford to be generous.” 

They were alive. They were together. And despite the fact that Richelieu would probably never know, they had won this one, and for now, it was enough. He stepped forward and bowed, his arm extended to his side, content to be in the company of his brothers. “Shall we, my friends?”

With an air of everlasting camaraderie, the four Musketeers disappeared into the bustling streets of Paris.

 

Fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La Sainte Larme, the holy tear of Christ held at the Abbey of La Trinité in Vendôme, boomed in popularity during the mid 17th century, leaving behind a trail of associated ampullae across Europe. This tear had been shed by Christ upon the death of Lazarus (John 11:32-37). According to the apocryphal version of the Gospel story, the tear was caught by an angel in a phial and given to Mary Magdalene to keep. This primary relic of Christ was so revered that at least eight French churches claimed to possess it during the thirteenth century. Since Richelieu died of heart failure in the show, I decided he was feeling the effects earlier on and was interested in the tear for its rumored healing powers. It sounded like something he would do. I would love to hear what you thought of this little adventure! This may be my last story for a while as my daughter is getting married in early August and preparations are now in full swing, but I will be back! As soon as I come up with another idea for a plot. any suggestions or prompts will be considered! Thanks for reading! - Sue


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